


be my breath (through the deep, deep water)

by GammaRey



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (kind of), Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst and Humor, Aphrodisiacs, Blow Jobs, Coughing, Drunk Kissing, Grinding, Guilt, Hanahaki Disease, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Illnesses, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Potions Accident, Suicidal Thoughts, draco is a useless gay, mentions of abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:41:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21982357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GammaRey/pseuds/GammaRey
Summary: “Why are they having students brew potions that are potentially sentient and bloodthirsty?” Potter exclaimed.“Semi-sentient, and that was only … well, a few times.”“Oh, only a few.  Great.  I feel much better.”--Draco just wanted to make it through his eighth year.  Having Harry Potter as his potions partner was complicated enough, but when their potion decides it has its own agenda, his life only gets deeper in the weeds.(it’s a pun… because this is hanahaki.  get it?  *ducks offstage*)
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 21
Kudos: 495





	1. Chapter 1

**Day One**

Draco blamed Harry Potter for many miserable occurrences in his life, but he could no longer remember a single one -- well, except for maybe his hands. 

See, like many others, Professor Slughorn decided to return to Hogwarts after the war. Unlike many others, he was there for profit -- selling student-made potions, no less. Naturally, the NEWT level classes were the most profitable. Draco was sure their seating arrangement was purposeful -- the worst students were paired together, Greg and Weasel, for instance, while Slughorn profited off of their betters. 

And that left Draco with Harry Potter. 

While he was loathe to admit it, Potter was a decent brewer. Perhaps even good. But that didn’t make up for the fact that he was so  _ fucking _ distracting. Like when Potter cut up roots or stems, he didn’t curl his fingers and  _ Draco _ had to make sure he didn’t slice a finger off. It would surely be  _ his _ fault if the Chosen One lost a finger. Or, after about thirty minutes into lab, Potter would roll up his sleeves and  _ neglect _ to wear his dragonhide gloves. Honestly, the man was going to scald himself. Or poison. Or burn. 

And it would all be  _ Draco’s  _ fault. 

Potter had long fingers, too. Draco figured he’d be a good piano player. Not that it mattered. 

So, when Draco arrived at Hogwarts after break -- he’d crashed at Zabini’s flat, far away from his father -- he considered throwing himself off the astronomy tower, Dumbledore style, before going to class. Slughorn would surely find it hilarious. 

But, of course, he found himself at the back table in the Potions classroom, Potter at his left, trying not to watch as the Chosen One scribbled notes a loose piece of parchment. Potter’s penmanship was simply terrible, yet watching the formation of each letter was oddly fascinating. Draco, like on most days, neglected to take notes. 

He blinked long and hard, finally looking up from Potter’s parchment. 

“... and so, thanks to Professor Sprout’s handiwork, each group will be given the next month to brew their own batch of Veritaserum. Now, I must warn you, this is no small undertaking. I expect you will be spending many extra hours on this class. In addition to being a percentage of your final grade--” 

Groans rang through the classroom. 

“--I have decided to add a little extra incentive.” He paused for effect. “Students who successfully manage to brew this potion in the 28 days allotted will be allowed to use one drop -- just one -- on their partner to ask a single question of their choosing!” 

Slughorn grinned widely. 

Draco blinked slowly, glancing over at Potter whose hand had stilled. This could not possibly be happening. 

Perhaps Draco could  _ accidentally _ pour an entire vial of rose water into their cauldron to diminish the effects… 

“But sir,” he heard Granger call, distantly. “Is that legal?”

Slughorn chuckled. “Oh, it’ll be fine, my dear, just fine.” She tried to interrupt, but he cut her off. “Now, I suggest you and your partner get to work! The clock is ticking...”

Draco waited for as long as possible to talk to Potter, pretending to thumb through his book to read the instructions, but his finger caught the edge of the parchment, ripping skin. He cursed, sucking on the wound. Fuck it -- he didn’t need to read the instructions anyway. 

Finally, Potter turned to him. “Well, I guess we should gather ingredients…” Potter trailed off, eyes on the finger still in his mouth. His eyebrows raised. 

“Paper cut,” Draco supplied. 

“Ah.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “... So we should probably go to the greenhouse--”

“Good idea.”

“-- gather things from the potions closet --”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“ -- and get a room.”

“Er, what?”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “To make the potion. We can’t do it all in class periods -- Veritaserum is a very complicated potion that takes a lot of time to complete.”

“Right, yeah, Slughorn said something about that.” 

Draco grabbed a scrap of parchment and started scribbling down ingredients. He didn’t look at the recipe once. 

“Why don’t you get these from the stores and I’ll handle the vicious plants,” he said, thrusting the list at Potter. 

Potter frowned. “You sure you don’t need help?”

“Have you ever worked with a Slimming Merribite?”

“... No.”

“I’ve got it.”   


“So you have, then? Worked with one?” Potter asked. 

Draco grimaced. “We, ah, had a greenhouse at the manor. Before… everything.” 

“Oh,” he said. “Right.” Potter ducked away towards the storage closets, black hair flipping over his eyes. Since the war, he’d finally gotten rid of those stupid glasses he always wore. Now he wore some sort of muggle device that sat  _ in _ his eye. Draco shook his head as he left for the greenhouse. Barbaric. 

… 

At lunch, Draco received an owl -- a little brown and white barn owl with a heart-shaped face, its huge brown eyes staring up at him longingly. He rolled his eyes, feeding it a sausage before he untied the note attached to its claw. It nibbled at his finger and flew off, contented. 

Pansy frowned at him. “Who’s that from?”

“I do believe that is none of your business. Even so, I have no idea.” Draco stuffed the note in his pocket for later. If Pansy got wind of something even mildly interesting, it would be known all over the school by sundown. 

She pouted. “How about you, Zabini? Anything interesting?”

Across the table, Zabini’s hand covered his forehead, plate untouched below him as he read a piece of parchment. He groaned. “Fuck, ah… My step-dad’s dead. Dragonpox, this time. Not exactly original.”

“Salazar’s pants… that sucks, mate,” Draco said.

He sighed. “Yeah, it does. He was nice -- sent me chocolate frogs for Christmas.”

Pansy’s eyes were wide. “Isn’t this the  _ fifth _ husband she’s killed?”

“Pansy!” Daphne elbowed her in the ribs. “You can’t just say that!” She hissed. 

Blaise just snorted. “Allegedly, this is the sixth husband.” He crumpled up the paper and shoved it in his pocket. “I’ve got class,” he mumbled before exiting the hall in a quiet storm. 

“Me too,” Draco said, taking Zabini’s exit as his own opportunity to leave -- Pansy likely had enough entertainment for the morning, and wouldn’t go following him around the castle. At least, he hoped. 

When he was safely on his way to History of Magic, he pulled out the letter and frowned, recognizing the sloppy penmanship. But that wasn’t what stopped him cold. Potter had taken it upon himself to find a room for their Veritaserum. 

Draco hadn’t been to the Room of Requirement since Vince died. 

The worst thing was that he couldn’t back down now. He cursed himself for not taking the initiative soon enough. Just thinking about that corridor on the seventh floor made his mouth dry, made his heart pound at his ribs. The fire, the cabinet, the death eaters. Potter. 

Potter knew, didn’t he? He must have realized that Draco would be… apprehensive about returning to that secret door.

Draco scowled. He could play this game. 

He continued on, forcing his heart rate to slow. Now he certainly wasn’t going to sabotage their potion. No, no, no -- now he wanted his single question.

But as Draco approached the last corner on the seventh floor, it felt exactly like sixth year, like nothing had changed. Like he was going to fix the cabinet, destroy the school, kill Dumbledore. 

No -- the Dark Lord was dead, the Death Eaters vanished, the cabinet destroyed by fiendfyre. But so was Vince. 

Draco closed his eyes. Sure, they weren’t  _ friends _ , per say, but Draco had felt a certain responsibility for Vince. It was Draco’s fault he was dead, Draco’s fault Greg wandered the halls at night, never sleeping. 

He sucked in a breath and turned the corner. His wand was out, but he didn’t even notice. 

Everything was as it had been, the door perfectly materialized on the wall without even a thought. He already knew what would be inside and his heart pounded ever louder with each step he took.

The doors opened without his bidding, swinging wide, sending a wave of oppressive heat crashing into his body. The fire burned bright as ever, hot as hell, shapes moving within its mass and all he could think was he left Vince there to die. 

Waves of heat crashed over him and he found himself being pulled in. Despite the heat, despite the fear, despite the voice in the back of his head screaming his name, Draco took a step forward, and another, and another. When he crossed the threshold the doors would close, trapping him inside the place where nothing was hidden. He could find Vince, he could beg his forgiveness. 

Maybe the flames would forgive him, if no one else would. 

The sound of his frantic heart grew louder in his head as he took the final step. 

But cool wind whipped through him as his body flew back, hitting the floor with a thud.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” A voice cut through the ringing in his ears. 

When he looked up, the door had disappeared and in its place stood Potter, red-faced and panting. The anger in his face gave way to something else as Draco fought for words. 

“Oh  _ shit _ ,” Potter turned back to the now blank wall. “I thought the Room would save us some time setting up lab, but Godric…” He ran a hand through his hair, eyes on the ground. “I guess I forgot.”

Draco couldn’t help the strangled laugh that bubbled up from his throat. “Forgot, Potter? You forgot?” He stood, his guilt giving way to anger. “It’d be easy for you, wouldn’t it?” he growled, and yanked up his left sleeve. Potter just stared. 

“You see this?  _ This _ ensures that I will always be blamed, or suspected, or punished for anything that goes wrong in this god-forsaken country! I don’t have the luxury of forgetting. Do you know how hard it is to abandon your family, Potter? That is a choice I had to make -- my mother did nothing wrong, and yet I can’t speak to her without the Ministry breathing down my neck. My father, he’s a bastard, but he’s my father. And now he’s locked in Azkaban. Of course, you wouldn’t understand that, would you? Your parents are in the fucking ground.”

Draco expected Potter to yell, or at least to flinch, but he was silent. He scoffed and turned away, walking briskly in the opposite direction. Potter didn’t say a thing as Draco turned the corner, eyes suspiciously wet. 

… 

Draco supposed he really had a thing for breaking down in bathrooms. 

He’d gone to ask Slughorn for a group change, to work alone, to do anything that didn’t involve looking Potter in the eyes, but of course Slughorn refused. The bastard probably knew he’d have more potion to sell if he just split them up. But no -- Slughorn wanted to watch Draco suffer. He was sure of it.

Draco splashed his face with cold water, waiting for the red veins in his eyes to fade. Then, he heard a soft creek behind him. The door. Draco cursed, ducking into a stall.  _ If it’s fucking Potter --  _

Tucking his wand in his sleeve, Draco emerged in a whirlwind, but it was just a fourth year Hufflepuff. The boy blanched and ran into a stall, practically whimpering. Draco scoffed. What a waste of space. 

By dinner time that evening, Draco had almost convinced himself everything was normal until that bloody owl intruded once again on his meal.

“That one again?” Pansy asked, eyes glittering. “You must have an admirer.”

Draco scoffed. “Please.”

“Why’s that so hard to believe?”   


“Well hm, let’s see… there was that one time I bullied every Muggleborn in this school, became a death eater, attempted to assassinate the headmaster, caused untold destruction to school property and knowingly committed treason against the government.”

“Exactly! You know, a lot of people are into bad boys. There’s been some juicy talk in the girl’s dormitory--”

“Okay,” Blaise interrupted. “I’m eating. Could you just… not?”

Draco frowned. “Yeah, I’m good too.”

“Oh, come on!” Pansy whined. “No one ever listens to my gossip!”

Daphne snorted. “Pansy, sweetie, the entire school listens to your gossip. Not that you give them much of a choice.”

“Yes, but my  _ friends _ don’t. Really, you should show some appreciation for the woman who buys you booze.”

Blaise shook his head. “Pansy, my queen, savior of Slytherin house quidditch parties, my comrades and I greatly appreciate your efforts to promote house intoxication.”

Pansy pretended to tip her hat and continued on about her new girlfriend, but Draco was too busy scowling at Potter’s messy script to pay attention.

_ Malfoy, _

_ Despite how circumstances seem at the moment, the room situation truly was a fuck-up on my part. I’m really sorry about that. If you want to switch partners, I get it. If not, I’ve got a cauldron in the fifth-floor classroom next to the portrait of Eros and Psyche. _

_ -Harry _

Draco laughed mirthlessly. He didn’t have much of a choice, it seemed. But, if he had to work with Potter, he might as well avoid him as much as possible. That evening was the first quidditch match of the new year: Gryffindor vs. Slytherin. He could easily slip out unnoticed and complete the first stages of the potion. 

Draco sighed. He hadn’t played quidditch since he quit in sixth year to work on the cabinet. He found himself missing the wind in his hair, the adrenaline of competition, and, of course, the chance to beat Potter. But he doubted they’d let him back. He wouldn’t lower himself to begging. 

He dodged his fellow Slytherins as they filed out to the quidditch pitch, turning instead towards the dungeons, where he collected his Slimming Merribite vines and a bottle of Firewhiskey from the case he kept disillusioned under his bed for bad days. 

When he made it up the winding staircases to the fifth floor, he scowled at the painting of the two lovers. It was rather seductive for a school full of pubescent teenagers, Draco thought -- Psyche laid bare, wisps of cloth barely covering her body, as she reached up to Eros who cupped her head and breast, his majestic wings spread outward. The detail was striking, the lighting bright despite the age of the painting. Draco, however, wasn’t a fan of that particular myth. 

His displeasure deeped when he opened the door to the classroom to find it already occupied. 

“Potter?” Draco’s scowl deepened. “What are you doing in here?”

“Er, well I’m… stirring.” He nodded to the cauldron where his  _ gloveless _ hand was stirring the base counterclockwise. 

“No, Potter, what are you doing  _ here _ , as in not on the quidditch pitch.”

He shrugged. “I quit before break. The whole thing just seemed… trivial after everything, you know?”

“Not particularly.” Draco dropped the bag of greens and on the table next to their ingredients. 

“You miss it, then?” 

Draco didn’t respond -- he was evaluating the color of Potter’s base. It was deep blue. Of course it was perfect. Or maybe not -- maybe it was cyan. Draco squinted. 

“Why didn’t you join up again?”   


Draco resisted the urge to groan and die. “Why do you think? Use your common sense for once.” He sneered. “You know that most Slytherins aren’t just okay with the fact I conspired with the Dark Lord to murder the headmaster.”

“Dumbledore.”

“I know his fucking name,” Draco growled, tipping his head back, a deep burning already threatening his eyes. 

Draco pulled out the Firewhiskey and slammed it down on the table. Potter jumped at the noise, glaring up at him. 

Draco forced himself to take a deep breath, cooling the anger and rage and fear threatening to bubble over. He never had the chance to talk about what happened that night -- his parents weren’t exactly viable options, and the Slytherins tended to avoid that particular subject. 

The Chosen One shook his head. “Look, Malfoy --”

“Just shut up about it, Potter. Let’s just get this over with -- therapy isn’t part of the deal.” He uncorked the Firewhiskey and took a swig. Then, he motioned for Potter to scoot over as he tended to the next steps. 

“I see self-medicating  _ is _ a part of the deal.” 

“Jealous, Potter?” Draco sneered, swishing the liquid around in its bottle. 

He snorted. “You wish.”

Somehow the pair managed to work in an only mildly tense silence. As Draco added in the last bits of dried jade vine, turning the potion to a fluorescent blue, Potter packed his bag. 

“I’ve got a DADA quiz tomorrow, so I better get going. You staying here?”   


Draco nodded absently.

“I’ll leave the potions book with you, then”

“Take it. I don’t need it.”

Potter raised his eyebrows. “So you  _ have _ made this before, then.”

Draco scoffed. “Subtle, Potter.” When it seemed he would wait until Draco gave him a real answer, Draco continued, eyes narrowed. “The only thing this needs to do is simmer for twelve hours. Unlike some, I don’t need directions to figure that part out.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Draco’s lips quirked. “Please. Your pet Weasel would have to look up ‘simmer’ in the dictionary. Frankly, he’s incapable of making it into the Auror Academy on merit -- he’ll have to use you in place of an application.” Draco strolled around his table, hand casually in his pockets. Potter was fuming. “And, of course, the Ministry would do anything for the Chosen One.”

Potter growled, striding towards him. “You have no right-- ”

“You have fame and glory -- you could ask for any job in the ministry  _ today _ and they would give it to you. Frankly, I don’t know why you’re still here. If I walked into the ministry, I would likely be arrested. I need to get seven O’s on my NEWTS to even be  _ considered _ for a position in the entirety of Britain.”

“You made a choice, Malfoy,” Potter said. “You made a choice, and now you have to live with it.”

“I didn’t have a choice! Can you honestly tell me that if your parents were alive, you would abandon them? That you would abandon your family, perhaps to face them on the other side of a battlefield, can you honestly tell me that?”

“I would do what was right--”

“You would do what was necessary! You would do what was necessary to stay with your family, to protect the people you care about, even if that meant fighting for a maniac.”

“You could have changed their minds, Malfoy.”

He laughed. “You’ve met my father, how do you think he would respond to that?”   


“Then I don’t understand how you could have stayed!”

“Why did you stay with the Dursleys?”

“What? How do you know about that?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “I know Pansy Parkinson. Why did you stay with the Dursleys? Why didn’t you leave when you were older, report them to child services, or hell, stay with a neighbor?”

“Er, Dumbledore--”

“You had plenty of opportunities to leave before the headmaster told you to stay in that hellhole. When did you realize they were abusive?”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Potter growled.

“Just answer the fucking question!”

“The Dursleys weren’t abusive, there were just...”

“Oh, yes, they were so very misunderstood, forcing a child into indentured servitude and Salazar knows what else.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying many people in abusive relationships don’t realize they’re in an abusive relationship, or if they do, they justify it.”

“And when did you become so fucking insightful?”

“That’s not the point, Potter, and you know it. You can’t just blame me for loving my fucking father even though he believed that propaganda shit!” 

“Even though he killed? Murdered behind a mask?”

“Can you say with complete confidence that your parents never killed someone for the Order, Potter?”

“Fuck off.”

“I’ll take that as a no.”

“I said fuck off. They would never kill someone like that.”

“Bollocks!”

_ “Stupefy!” _

_ “Protego.” _

The spell bounced off his shield charm and hit the wall with a deafening boom. When Draco recovered from the shock blast, Potter had already fled. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Day Five**

Draco was not avoiding Harry Potter. After all, he hadn’t thrown a curse, not that anyone would believe that fact. It just so happened that every time Draco went to the fifth-floor classroom, Potter wasn’t present. But remnants of his presence lay scattered in the room -- treacle tart crumbs here, discarded gloves there, his citrus cologne a whisper on the air. No, if anything, Potter was avoiding him. For once in his life, Draco hadn’t done anything wrong. Was it wrong he took a bit of joy in that?   


Draco was of the opinion that their current arrangement was for the best. But of course, double Potions always ruined everything. 

Somehow, with all the drama, Draco had forgotten that Potions was actually a class he still had to attend. Which meant sitting next to Potter. For hours. He assumed he could just do what he always did -- avoid eye contact, brood about Potter’s handwriting, and give terse direction. As always, he was wrong.

“Er … Malfoy?”

Draco sighed, glaring at Potter through his hair. “What do you want?”

“I’m, er, really embarrassed about what happened, and … I’m sorry for casting a hex at you. But you did say some insensitive shit.”

Draco blinked. “It was the truth.”

“Just because something’s true doesn’t mean people need to hear it.”

He shook his head. “You Gryffindors are fascinating specimens.”

“We are?” Potter snorted. “Slytherins are like, universally insensitive.”

“The truth is a weapon, Potter. Get used to it.”

Evidently, Potter didn’t know how to respond. Draco sat in silence as Slughorn droned on about something or other. Whatever it was, he had likely already brewed it. 

As the pair went through the motions of lab, Potter broke the silence. 

“According to the instructions, the next part for the Veritaserum needs two people.”

Draco sighed. “Of course it does.” 

Potter ignored him. “Tonight, after dinner?”   


“Fine.”

And so it was. Draco was practically jumping out of his skin as dinner droned on and the time to their meeting drew closer and closer. By the time he reached that blasted painting, his blood was filled with so much adrenaline, he thought he might have a heart attack at nineteen. He didn’t know what he was going to say -- Salazar save him, he hadn’t planned for this moment at all. 

Potter didn’t notice him as he entered the room. He was poured over his textbook, back curled, head down, mess of hair doubtlessly obscuring his vision. The potion was a perfect slate-gray and Potter was biting his bloody nails. Because that was a great idea after handling potion ingredients. Draco shook his head.  _ Moron.  _

Not wanting to be caught staring, he closed the door loudly, made sure to accent his footsteps, and plop down noisily on the floor, across from Potter. He had moved the cauldron to the window -- for this next step to work, their potion needed to absorb the light of the full moon. Potter didn’t look up, eyes glued to the page. 

Draco rolled his eyes and cleared his throat. Potter blinked and looked up, cheeks red. “Ah, sorry. Just double checking the instructions.”

“The instructions are correct, unfortunately.”

“Oh.”

“Indeed.”

He blinked. “Well. How does this work then? How does the potion… know what we say is the truth?”   


Draco relaxed a little, his mind going back to his private lessons with his godfather. He ignored a twinge of sadness, and relaxed into lecture-mode. “In order for Veritaserum to divulge the truth, a sacrifice must be given. In this case, the brewer must tell an unknown truth to his partner, and vice versa. In order for the potion to be potent, the truth must concern the other person. I can’t just tell you where I hide my Firewhiskey. As for knowing the truth, no one knows. Some potioneers suspect that Veritaserum itself is a semi-sentient entity. Others just put it up to ‘magic.’ ”

Potter frowned. “But what happens if you lie?”

Draco shrugged. “Depends on the magnitude of the lie. With white lies, the potion will just lose its effect. Often, it becomes similar to a love potion. For larger lies, the potion tends to react … adversely.”

“Adversely?”

“Well, no one has survived to say what happens for sure.”

Potter swallowed. “Ah. Don’t lie then, got it.”

“The incantation is  _ revelio veritas _ .”

Potter nodded, a look of intense concentration on his face. “ _ Revelio veritas _ ,” he said, and his wand lit over the silvery liquid. He sucked in a breath. “I don’t blame you for the choices you made during the war. I can’t say I would have done any better.”

Draco’s eyes widened and he opened his mouth to snap something, but Potter’s hand rushed to cover his lips, skin brushing skin. Draco shivered. Of course -- saying anything now would be … potentially problematic. Draco nodded, attempting to calm his heart as Potter’s hand pulled away. Draco thought faintly that he might pass out. Did he eat dinner? He couldn’t remember. All he could think about were Potter’s bloody hands. 

He took a calming breath and moved his wand to rest on the rim of that cauldron. “ _ Revelio veritas _ .” His voice shook. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. What in Salazar’s name was he supposed to -- “Your hands are so fucking beautiful.”

“What--?” Potter clamped a hand over his own mouth, eyes wide. He looked at the cauldron apprehensively. “Fuck, was I not supposed to say anything?”

Draco wanted to die. Just  _ Avada _ himself now and end it all. 

“No,” he croaked. “It’ll be fine.”

The pair sat in awkward silence, flat out refusing to look one another in the eyes. Finally, Potter opened his mouth:

“Er, thanks--”

“I’m sorry--”

Potter’s eyes darted around, eyes shifting to study everything but him. Draco, now, couldn’t stop looking. 

“Er, well I should probably get going--”

Draco snapped out of his trance. “Me too.”

“Right.”

They both stood quickly and froze, eyeing each other. Draco gestured vaguely toward the door and Potter darted away, gathering his bag and exiting the moonlit classroom as quickly as he could without flat-out running. 

Draco let out a breath and collapsed onto the floor. What the _actual_ _fuck_ was he thinking?

  
  


**Day Six**

Draco awoke to Blaize noisily banging the drawers around -- a not-so-subtle signal that breakfast was about to be served. He cringed. Violently. He had told Potter his hands were … what was the adjective he used? Marvelous? Dazzling? Orgasmic? Wait what---

No no no no no no no

No.

Absolutely not. 

But --

Nope. This was not happening. Draco was going to completely ignore that any of that happened. Denial had worked for him so far. Why not continue the family tradition of ignoring every problem until they all exploded in his face? Marvelous. Just what the medi-witch ordered. 

He took a deep breath and forced himself from the warmth of his bed, making his body go through the motions in the freezing-cold dungeon. Whoever thought the aesthetic of the Slytherin dorms was worth the physical discomfort was obviously mental. 

At breakfast, he swore he felt a pair of eyes on him. He ignored it. Paranoia. All these feelings from sixth year were just manifesting into some sort of … social anxiety. That’s something a muggle psychologist would say, right?

No, it was just Potters bloody orgasmic hands--

_ Nope. No no no no no no no no no _

He needed to calm down. He thought of the Cruciatus curse -- that was a mood depressor. But for some reason he couldn’t even focus on his own misery anymore. Just the pair of eyes he  _ knew _ were studying him. He would not look up, he would not look up, he would not look up.

Draco looked up. 

Sure enough, there were Potter’s incessantly green eyes locked with his. He didn’t know how long they stared at each other before Potter caved and dropped his gaze, looking distinctly tomato-like. 

Apparently, it was long enough for Pansy to notice. 

“Lover’s quarrel?” She crooned. “What’d he do? Drop treacle tart in your potion?”

Draco scoffed. “What in Salazar’s name are you on about?”

“Potter, obviously. You were glaring at him like he killed your owl.”

“Are you sure you’re not imagining things Pansy? Perhaps you’re projecting.”

“Perhaps I’m  _ what _ ?”

“Projecting. Putting your own feelings about Potter onto me. Thinking I’m feeling something that really only you feel. Basic psychology.”

“Basic what-now? I am not  _ pro-jecting _ , Draco, I am  _ observing _ . Either you have it hard for Potter or you’re really angry at him.” She shrugged. “You can never tell with some men.”

Blaise laughed from across the table. “Definitely the former.”

“Excuse me? ” Draco said, eyebrows raised. 

“Mate. Do you know how many years I’ve had to put up with  _ Potter-this _ and  _ Potter-that _ . It’s a miracle you two haven’t shagged yet, for Salazar’s sake. 

“I am not sure what you are insinuating.”

“I’m not insinuating anything,” Blaise said, a smirk growing on his face. “I’m merely stating the facts.”

Pansy giggled. 

“Oh, that’s rich, Zabini. Bloody hypocrite.”

“What?”

“You think I talk about Potter incessantly? You should hear how you go on about the Weaslette.”

“I’m sorry,  _ what _ ?” 

Draco laughed. “Must you, after every single quidditch match, prattle on about Weasley’s form?”

“I do not!”

“There’s no better way to let on that you’ve got it hard for a bird than to talk incessantly about the position of her thighs.”

“I do not talk, nor have I ever talked, about a Gryffindor’s thighs.”

Pansy snickered. “I would reconsider that statement.”

“Enough,” Blaise growled. “I don’t have to put up with this.”

“See,” Draco said. “Now you know how it feels to put up with such accusations.”

“These particular accusations are false, thank you very much.” 

Pansy gave him a dubious look. “Mmmhmm.”

“Well! I’d better be off,” Blaise said quickly. “I have… things to do.”

“Things?”

“Things.”

“Red heads?”

“Absolutely not!” Blaise stood and exited quickly. Draco couldn’t help but notice the orientation of his head towards the Gryffindor table. 

Pansy scoffed. “False accusations my arse.”

Draco nodded sagely. The  _ real _ false accusations were about him and Potter. What a ridiculous concept. 

...

Draco went to check up on the potion during lunch, thinking Potter would be otherwise occupied with the other members of the Golden Trio and Friends. The peace of the quiet classroom was blissful after hours and hours of drama and … children. Honestly, who thought it was a good idea to put a hoard of twelve-year-olds in the same vicinity as the adults. Draco shook his head. It was just poor management. 

He was stirring the Veritaserum for the twenty-second time counterclockwise when the door creaked open. Of course it was Potter.  _ Salazar’s dysfunctional-- _

“Malfoy,” said Potter. Draco didn’t know if it was supposed to be a greeting or an acknowledgment. 

Draco started counting out loud. “Thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four…” 

Potter winced. “Sorry.”

_ Don’t be. I’m just avoiding awkward conversations I don’t wish to have with the likes of you. _

Draco continued counting, this time under his breath as Potter sat down across from him. His hands were flipping through the pages of the potions textbook, long dexterous fingers--

“That’s fifty, Draco.”

He dropped the stirring rod. “ _ Shit _ .”

Potter glanced at the potion suspiciously. “Nothing’s going to happen, right?”

_ He just called me Draco.  _ “Um, likely not, no.”

“Likely?”

“Yes.”

“Why are they having students brew potions that are potentially sentient and bloodthirsty?” Potter exclaimed.

“Semi-sentient, and that was only … well, a few times.”

“Oh, only a few. Great. I feel much better.”

Draco smirked.

Potter blew a long breath out of his mouth, glancing up at Draco. His eyes were glassy. “You wouldn’t happen to have any of that firewhiskey from the other night, would you?”

Draco raised his eyebrows. 

Potter went red. “Nevermind,” he muttered. 

Silently, Draco turned toward his bag and plunked down a half-empty bottle. When Potter reached for it, Draco moved it out of reach. 

“Not so fast, Potter. First you have to tell me what it’s for.”

“Drinking, obviously.” Potter wouldn’t look at him. 

Draco groaned. “One does not drink straight firewhiskey unless one has serious issues. What issues are you trying to avoid?” He sprinkled chopped gillyroot into the potion offhandedly, waiting for Potter’s reply. 

He crossed his arms. “Aren’t you supposed to get me drunk before the interrogation?”

Draco shrugged. “Not if I want comprehensible answers.”

Potter glared, eyeing the firewhiskey. “Fine. Ginny and I broke up, okay. Just now. And … well, Ron is being Ron about it, saying it’s my fault, and maybe it is, I donno, I just--” He looked up desperately, then frowned. “And, Merlin, I don’t know why I’m even telling you this.” He snatched the bottle, uncorked it, and took a swig. Then immediately started coughing. 

Draco laughed. “You’ve never had straight firewhiskey have you?”

His voice was hoarse. “I thought it’d be similar to the spiked punch in the common room.”

Draco snorted. “Not at all.”

“I’ve figured that one out, mate.” He took another drink, smaller this time, and grimaced. “Well, it’ll do the trick.”

“You know you can’t avoid your problems by drinking?” 

Potter raised his eyebrows. His eyes already looked distant. “Bit hypocritical, doncha think? I mean, you are the one carrying around bottles of firewhiskey. And this isn’t even the same bottle as last time.” He took a drink, lips wrapping around the glass--

“And when did you become so fucking observant?”

Potter giggled.  _ Giggled _ . “You cursed!”

“Yes, Potter.” He rolled his eyes. “I suppose now you’re going to spew countless obvious statements at me. Because you’re clearly already pissed.”

“You curse when people say something you don’t like.”

“... It seems I was correct -- obvious statements.”

“No no no no no I mean personal stuff you don’t want people to know. The stuff you keep behind occlumency walls and snake skin.”

“Was that supposed to be an analogy, Potter?”

“Redirection!”

“I see that alcohol is not a good idea with you.” Draco made a grab for the bottle, its contents dwindling, but Potter cradled it in his arms. 

Draco sighed, exasperated. “Speaking of redirection, why did you and the Weasley girl break up?”

“Mmmmm, you’re plying me with alcohol.”

Draco just raised his eyebrows. 

Potter sighed dramatically. “Ginny thinks she’s my  _ safety _ . Like I’m just clinging to her ‘cause she’s familiar, you know? But, like, is that such a bad thing? I mean … I wanted something simple after my clusterfuck of a life and I thought our relationship would always be waiting for me, but now that’s it’s not I dunno what to do and now everyone hates me. ‘Cause it’s my fault. Draco?”

_ He used my first name again.  _ “Hm?” 

“Why’s it my fault?”

Draco sighed. The old him would have loved this opportunity to tear Potter down, but for some reason the thought made him recoil. 

“It’s not your fault, Potter.”

“You sure? Ron seems to think so…”

“Yes, well, Ron is an idiot.” 

Potter was laying down. 

“Hey, don’t make fun. S’not nice.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Yes, well. In case you have not noticed, I am not exactly a nice person.”

Potter hummed. “I donno. You don’t seem not nice. Sometimes.”

“Potter, you followed me around all sixth year because you believed I was a death eater, and rightly so. Death eaters aren’t nice.”

“You didn’t have a choice. Told you that already. Is the ceiling moving?”

“No, Potter, the ceiling isn’t moving.”

“It’s definitely moving. Draco,” he whispered loudly. Draco just cut up his herbs. “What if it’s a dragon?” Potter giggled. “Like you. Draco the dragon.”

“Okay that’s enough.” He successfully snatched the bottle away from Potter. “You cannot hold your liquor, can you?”

Potter just stared upward, fixated by the cobblestone.

Draco sighed. “I can’t let you walk around the castle like this, can I?”

“You --”

“Rhetorical, Potter. Come on, get up. We’re going to Gryffindor Tower. Hopefully everyone’s in class by now.”

Thankfully, he had a free period for this nonsense. 

The trip up to the seventh floor was harrowing. Most of the students were in class, but the occasional sixth or seventh year would be out on free period. Draco was ashamed to say that he ducked behind a potted plant to hide, pushing Potter against the wall in the process. Potter didn’t complain. Instead he snickered. 

“Not exactly how I imagined doing this.”

What  _ the fuck? _ Draco just shushed him. “I am not going to be seen escorting you to Gryffindor tower in a  _ state _ , Potter, so shut your mouth.”

“Mm, I’d really rather not.”

Draco frowned, but Potter just stared at him, unblinking. He didn’t look away when Draco noticed. 

This was not how he expected his afternoon to go. 

Draco felt like he was suffocating. He grabbed Potter by the shirtsleeve and dragged him up the Grand Staircase. He was sure people saw them, but what else could he do, drag the potted plant up the stairs to hide behind? 

Potter, evidently, had no idea what was happening. His eyes were glancing around with wonderment, as if he’d never seen magic before. He looked like a first year at the Sorting Ceremony. 

When they reached the Fat Lady, Draco was relieved. He hadn’t been stopped by anyone, but he was sure this little interaction would spread around the school like wildfire. When Pansy and Blaise got their hands on this … Draco shuddered to imagine the conversations he would have to have. 

There was one problem that he completely overlooked. They were stuck outside the Fat Lady’s portrait. 

Draco groaned. “Potter, you’re going to have to give me the password.”

He didn’t respond, he was just looking at Draco with his emerald eyes. 

“Potter?”

He startled. “Hm?”

Draco spoke slowly. “Do you know the password to Gryffindor tower?”

“Password? Uhh, I think Neville said it was ‘Blast-Ended Skrewt.”

Draco made a face at the reminder of those monstrous creatures, but the portrait swung open, eliciting a sigh of relief. 

Draco gestured at Potter awkwardly for him to go in, but he just grabbed Draco’s sleeve. 

“C’mon, no one’s inside.”

Draco hesitated. “Well… I’ve never been to the other common rooms.”

They entered, and Draco was immediately assaulted by the sheer amount of red. It was much more … homely than the Slytherin common room. While theirs was elegant, it was also stuffy. Here, yellow light emanated from the large fireplaces, and streamed in through the high windows. Plush chairs and countless rugs gave him the illusion of comfort. 

That was when he tripped over one of said rugs. Potter tried to grab him, but his balance betrayed him, and they both went down.

Potter was on top of him, one of his blasted hands grabbing his shirt, the other at the side of his head. Draco could feel his breath on his neck, could see his eyes sparkling with emerald green reminiscent of Slytherin colors. Suddenly, he was boiling. 

Potter’s eyes met his, and he raised himself over Draco, their chests brushing. He didn’t know why, but Potter glanced down, lowering his head and brushing their lips together, and Draco felt like he was laying on hot coals. He pulled away, eyes wide, but before Draco could hesitate he captured Potter’s lips roughly, wanting… something. 

That same fire churned in his stomach, burning brighter with each brush of their lips. Potter’s mouth opened to his and their tongues clashed, sending sparkes to his fingertips where he clung to Potter’s back. Draco swung a leg over him and flipped them over, burying a hand in his shock of black hair. Potter moaned as Draco deepened the kiss, grinding his hips against Draco’s, his arousal evident. 

Draco sighed into his mouth. Potter was drunk. He needed to stop. They were on the common room floor for Salazar’s sake. 

Fucking hell, he was kissing Harry Potter. 

The Chosen One. 

His arch rival, or enemy, or whatever it was that they were supposed to be. 

Draco broke their kiss, running a hand through Potter’s hair. “Potter, you need to go up to bed now.”

“Mmm, bed sounds nice. More comfortable than floor.”

Draco stood, taking a few deep breaths to calm himself. Potter just lay on the floor, staring up at Draco like he was some sort of idol. “Potter? Are you getting up?”

He blinked. “Right.” He stood, swaying a bit on his feet. Draco grabbed his arm to steady him. This, apparently gave him the wrong idea, as Potter grabbed his arm and started dragging him to the stairs. 

“Potter! You have to go up  _ alone _ .”

He looked at Draco with  _ actual _ puppy-dog eyes. “I thought you were coming with.”

Draco sighed. “I’m a Slytherin. I can’t be caught dead in the Gryffindor common room, or McGonagall will kill me.”

“Oh,” Potter said. Then he crashed his lips against Draco’s, and his breathing exercises were for nothing. The kiss was sloppy and wet and it felt like Draco was burning for his sins. He groaned.

Potter pulled away. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he whispered before leaving Draco with nothing but his unsteady breath. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Day Seven**

Draco was left with the hint of a memory that he wasn’t even sure was real. That, and a string of wet dreams we would rather not think about. 

Potter had no idea what happened in the Gryffindor common room, he was so drunk. Or if he did, he wasn’t letting on. But Potter wasn’t the subtle type. 

This left Draco to stew in his own misery. 

Potions class was almost impossible. He could smell Potter, that citrus-woody scent that was all of the sudden like a fucking  _ fertility spell _ .

_ You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to do that. _

Draco shivered. What the hell was that supposed to mean? Six days, six months, six years? He didn’t even know Potter liked men. 

Maybe it was just the firewhiskey. 

  
  


**Day Ten**

The Veritaserum was coming along spectacularly, but that seemed to be at the back of Draco’s mind. It shouldn’t bother him that Potter didn’t remember what happened, but Draco couldn’t brush it off.  _ You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to do that. _

Draco couldn’t tell if he meant it… people are often more truthful in inebriated states.

Then again, it didn’t take Potter long to get pissed. Maybe this was all an elaborate ploy to humiliate him. At least that way they would go back to being enemies. What simpler times. 

Though it was difficult, Draco just pretended like it didn’t happen. But he could tell Potter sensed a shift in dynamic, but it couldn’t be helped-- Potter had been grinding on top of him just four days ago. 

By that evening, they were at the more complicated stages of brewing Veritaserum, requiring precise timing, stirring, and wand-work. Mishaps could be fatal, but Draco could only seem to care about Potter’s hands as they tinkered with the ingredients. Draco stirred; he needed exactly 63 ⅜ long stirs, and was deliberating on whether or not he lost count. 

He went with no. 

Potter was chopping the snake skin, his knuckles white around the hilt of the knife. Draco couldn’t help but imagine them gripping his -- 

_ Stop it. Focus.  _

Draco blinked and continued on, throwing in the fluxweed, then the griffon feathers. Then, Potter was licking his lips and Draco forgot whether or not he stirred the potion six times before adding the Merrybite slime. His work was a blur; he couldn’t really remember what he did with the potion, just how Potter’s sleeves rode up his forearms or how his hair flopped into his eyes. 

He certainly didn’t remember grabbing the rose petals. 

Draco didn’t know why they were out -- they didn’t go into the potion until the final stages. But once he added them, a puff of pink smoke rushed out of the cauldron, swarming his face, his nose, his lungs. He could feel the smoke crowding inside him, and he thought he might burst. He coughed, convulsions wracking his body. 

He might have blacked out, for the next thing he knew, Potter was kneeling before him, rose petals strewn all over the floor.  _ Did they erupt from the potion? _

Something warm touched his neck, but he couldn’t move, his body stuck as if the potion had cast a  _ petrificus totalus _ . 

Potter was becoming a blob of color above him and Draco lost the warm feeling at his pulse point. Suddenly, he was freezing. The Potter-shaped blob became smaller and smaller in his vision until he was presumably staring at the cold, empty room, their malevolent potion at the corner of his eye. Chills wracked his body, his teeth chattering to the point of pain, and he lay in the fetal position for what seemed like hours.

All he could think was that Potter stole his body heat, his dignity, his soul. 

He shivered harder.

  
  


**Day Eleven**

Draco woke to a bright light shining through his eyelids -- a fire. His back no longer ached from the stone floor, but instead he lay in a small cot, covered by several white blankets. The chills had not subsided.

He quickly found that he was in the hospital wing. His cot had evidently been dragged from its place in the neat rows and placed by the grand fireplace, but he remembered none of it. 

When he heard the clacking of heels he closed his eyes, hoping no one would bother him. 

“I saw that, Mr. Malfoy!” came the stern voice of Madame Pomfrey. The sounds of her shoes picked up as she rushed over to his bedside. Draco groaned internally and opened his eyes. Pomfrey thrust a metal bucket at him. 

Draco frowned. “What is this for?” he asked, voice hoarse. 

Pomfrey raised her eyebrows. “That fever must have knocked you out cold. I suggest you take a look at the floors, Mr. Malfoy.” 

Draco complied, hesitantly, and found that the cobbled floors of the hospital wing were strewn with rose petals, a path leading straight to his bed. 

“What the fuck is this?” he said. As if in answer, his lungs filled with pressure and he coughed violently. It seemed to temporarily ease the pain, but he could feel the pressure growing back again. A new pile of red rose petals lay scattered on his blanket.

Pomfrey thrust the bucket into his arms once again. “Language, Mr. Malfoy. Two points from Slytherin.”

Draco coughed again, this time into the bucked, covering grey metal bottom with a red layer reminiscent of blood. “Two points?” he wheezed. “Really?” 

“Well, you’re sick,” she clucked. “I’m not a monster. Now, Mr. Potter gave me a vague explanation of the events that occurred last night with your potion. I was hoping you could give me more details, but I’m assuming the answer is no.”

Draco grimaced. “Rose petals are supposed to be one of the final ingredients added. I grabbed them by mistake.”

“Well, I’m not sure a case like this has ever been recorded, and thus I do not know how to begin treating you.”

When Draco didn’t so much as blink, she continued, “If I may ask, why were the rose petals out in the first place if you weren’t in need of them?” 

Draco scowled. “Ask Potter -- he was in charge of ingredients.”

“Mr. Potter has already told me he had no recollection of retrieving rose petals from your personal stores.” 

Draco frowned. “Well what the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“Language--” Pomfrey sighed. “Oh, never mind. I have already consulted Horace on the matter, but it seems he has very  _ little _ knowledge on the dangers of brewing Veritaserum. I will have  _ words _ with Dumbledore before the year is out,” she muttered. “I will have to ask you to stay for the day for observation. In the meantime, I will attempt to brew something to alleviate your chills, as the fever potion doesn’t seem to be working.”

Draco just nodded. He was having trouble processing information. He could only seem to think in images-- the glimmer of dark potion, the red of rose petals, the deep green of Potter’s eyes. They were spinning through his mind so quickly, he was becoming nauseous. He tried occluding, but his mental shields were torn down in an instant, and he was again flooded with images. He could vaguely feel the convulsions of his body as he coughed, but he was too deep within his mind to care. 

He spun and spun through an endless timeline, taking him back and forth through his miserable life. The rejected handshake, the punch to the nose, the Yule ball, the Inquisitorial Squad, the Dark Mark, the cabinet, the Sectumsempra, the torture, the final battle, the potion, repeat. 

Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. 

  
  


**Day Twelve**

When Draco awoke the next morning, he was not surprised to see Potter pacing at the edge of his cot. Draco was still positioned near the fire, and Pomfrey seemed to have given up on the bucket, for rose petals covered his bed sheets and the floor all around him. Draco shivered, feeling his lungs expand with that tickling, growing feeling he’d already learned to dread. The coughing started out contained, but soon became feverish hacking as he added a new layer to the floor. 

Of course Potter had to be there to witness his misery. 

“So,” he said. “You’re, er, awake.”

“It seems that way.” Draco didn’t know if he was grateful of resentful of that little fact. 

Potter frowned. “I shouldn’t have come -- I’ll leave you to rest.” Potter turned to walk away, and Draco hesitated. 

“Potter, wait.” 

He turned. 

“Just -- ask what you want to ask. Despite what Pomfrey may tell you, I don’t need to be fucking sheltered.”

Potter sighed. “It’s just -- well, it certainly seems trivial now, but the potion is being very… temperamental and I, er, have no idea how to fix it. I need your help.”

On any other occasion, Draco would have been smug. It seemed he was too tired for that. “Of course.”

“No, it’s not fair of me to ask, you need to rest. I can get Slughorn to take pity on us -- he likes me.”

Draco snorted. “I’ve noticed. Look, we’re finishing this potion whether you like it or not. I have a question to ask.”

Potter ran a hand through his hair. “Oh yeah, I forgot about that.”

Draco glanced around the hospital wing. When he didn’t see Pomfrey, he threw off the covers and stood. Shivers wracked his body and his knees gave out. He would have fallen if Potter hadn’t grabbed his arm, steadying him. 

“I didn’t mean now!” he said. 

Draco rolled his eyes. “If we want to fix it, we need to do it today, or the potion won’t be able to complete the final stage. We’ve lost hours already.” Draco grabbed the bucket that sat stationary by the bed. It was halfway filled with rose petals. He tossed them into the fire, watching them burn with a deep satisfaction. 

Potter looked determined to make him stay, but Draco was feeling brave, so he just grabbed Potter’s arm and dragged him out of the hospital wing and up to the fifth floor corridor. He had flashbacks of the other night, of pushing Potter up against that wall… 

“I need to ask you one more question,” Potter said hesitantly on the way up the stairs. 

“And what is that?” Draco sighed. 

Potter hesitated. “Did you do it on purpose?”

When Draco started, Potter rushed to explain. “It’s just that I know I didn’t get the rose petals out and I know you know they weren’t supposed to go in there and --”

“Potter!”

“Yeah?” 

“If there was ever a time to end it all, I would’ve stepped into that bloody cabinet in sixth year and let it rip me apart. Got it?”

He just nodded. They continued on. 

… 

Draco was improvising. He had to send Potter down to refresh their stores, and he was asking for ingredients on a whim. He’d honestly never considered becoming a potioneer, but he had to admit, he was a bit proud of himself for his logic. If his method turned out to work, their potion could be back on track, with only a few minor complications, by nightfall.

Draco waited anxiously for Potter’s return. He was antsy. He hadn’t gotten up to walk in hours and the shivering made him feel even more energized. He had to turn to hack into his bucket -- if he got a rose petal into the potion again, he wasn’t sure what would happen.

When Potter returned with Draco’s requests, the shivers seemed to lighten. Draco got to work organizing and assessing the potion once more while Potter paced back and forth. Draco forced himself not to watch Potter’s legs, but they  _ were _ right in his line of sight. 

_ Focus. This was the problem last time, you wanker. _

But Draco could tell he was itching to speak. “Just say it, Potter.”

“... Well, are you sure it’s safe?”

Draco scoffed. “Of course not. This is experimental potioneering -- nothing is safe now.”

“What? Then why the bloody hell did you agree to this?”

_ Why the bloody hell  _ did _ I agree to this? _

Draco just scoffed. “What did you expect, Potter? Just add tears of magpie and it’d be all better?”

“Well no, but… I thought you’d at least have some idea what you’re doing.”

“I do. It’s just  _ experimental _ . That’s what experimental potioneering means, Potter.”

“Yeah, yeah, alright, just bloody carry on, then.”

Draco’s shoulders relaxed in relief. He assessed his choices and picked up essence of marbleberry, grabbing a copper stirring rod and hoping for the best. 

Potter was still pacing. 

_ Salazar’s balls. _

“Potter, will you sit the fuck down and let me concentrate.”

He cleared his throat. “Right, sorry.”

Draco rolled his shoulders clearing his mind, trying to reduce the shivers making his hands shake (or maybe that was nervousness). He moved to tip the bottle -- 

“So what’s that for then?”

Draco jumped, snatching his hands away from the cauldron and glaring. “Potter! You  _ cannot _ just do that!”

“Sorry! Just -- tell me it’s not going to blow up again.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “This step is actually -- well, most likely -- perfectly safe. Currently, our potion has reverted into a kind of love potion--”

“A love potion?”

“Yes, similar, though not as advanced -- it can’t really  _ make _ you feel love like Amortentia can. But they’re very similar in chemical composition.”

“So how do you convert it back, then?”

“It’s not without its kinks, but the current plan is to amplify it, then use a few more truth incantations to change its course magically. By then, following the regular steps should lead us to something resembling veritaserum.”

“I just hope it doesn't turn out to be poison.”

Draco shrugged. “There’s no guarantee until we test it.”

“Oh, fantastic. Way to calm my nerves, Malfoy.”

Draco snorted. “Prat.”

He could feel Potter’s eyes on him intensely as he tampered with the potion, adding ingredients on a whim, stirring until it  _ looked right _ , whatever that meant. The room was filled with warm smoke filled with a citrus and wood scent, and yet the shivers wracked his body was he worked. But he hardly noticed the progression of the rose petals, he was concentrating so hard. 

But not on the potion.

He could feel Potter sitting across from him, but he refused to look. Or maybe trying not to look was too distracting, so he looked. Definitely not a good idea, no. 

But every time he looked up, their eyes would meet -- then dart away. It was infuriating, and if this room got any warmer, Draco might explode into the potion, and who knew what would happen then. 

The steam from the “Veritaserum” seemed to envelope him, seemed to sing a song of loneliness and grief, and he swayed. A rhythmic back and forth motion like a dance, slow and steady, as he stared into the emerald green depths of the cauldron. 

He thought about adding an octopus sucker, but decided against it. He liked the color. 

Rhythmic pounding echoed in his head and he swayed to a song he couldn’t hear and didn’t know. His body seemed to tingle with electricity and he imagined the tendrils of smoke softly caressing his arms, traveling down his body in whisps. The feeling tickled, and he sucked in a breath. He had stopped working on the potion, and when he opened his eyes (his eyes were closed?) Potter was staring, enraptured, breathing hard. A single tendril of smoke teased his spine, making him shiver. 

He honest to Merlin didn’t know how Potter ended up against the wall, Draco practically on top of him. All he knew was that he was high on the smoke and Potter’s scent (did he spray cologne?) in the air and the look in his eyes as he stared up at Draco. His lips were parted, his breathing heavy, chest rising against Draco’s before falling away. 

This time their kiss didn’t start light. Draco’s hand braced against the warm stone as his head dipped to catch Potter’s lips in a crash of ice and fire. When Potter responded with equal force, Draco pressed his leg between Potter’s thighs, pressing him harder to the wall. Potter moaned, hips shifting against Draco’s thigh, searching for contact. Draco gave it to him.

Their thrusts were timed with the beats to the song he couldn’t seem to escape. Smoke clouded his vision as his lips broke away from Potter’s, finding his neck, kissing down to his collarbone where his teeth sank into skin. Potter moaned his name. As their pace increased, Draco nibbled on his earlobe and Potter’s pants grew into mewls, his movements jerky and uncoordinated. A hand gripped his hair, tugging his head back up for a kiss, and Potter came with a groan, sagging against the wall. 

His breathing was heavy, eyes glassy as they slid back up to his. Draco almost came right then and there. 

“Fuck…” was all he seemed to manage to say. 

Potter snorted, delirious. And then he was moving. Draco found himself at the opposite end of Potter’s mercy, back to the stone, Potter’s hands undoing his belt buckle. Draco swore. Loudly.

Potter was on his knees. His pants were on the floor and he lay bare in the smoke-warmed air and Draco couldn’t breathe. He was going to come right now if he didn’t -- 

Potter looked up at him, his fingers lightly stroking Draco’s burning erection and his legs spasmed. It was like fire shooting through his veins but it wasn’t  _ enough.  _

__

He groaned. “ _ Potter… _ ” 

__

The bastard smirked, a twinkle in his eyes. “Where  _ are _ your manners, Mr. Malfoy?”

__

His whole body shook. He’d never been this hard in his life. “Please,” he breathed. 

__

“Please what?” Potter’s fingers teased his bollocks and Draco felt like he would implode--

__

“Fuck me.”

__

He smirked. 

__

Potter’s warm mouth sheathed him and Draco cried out. Potter seemed to sway with the smoke, his tongue circling his tip before taking him almost to the hilt. Draco didn’t last long -- his body writhed with each maneuver of Potter’s mouth. Draco’s hands buried themselves in his mess of black hair as he restrained his hips from pounding into Potter’s mouth. 

__

With one last suck, he came into Potters mouth with a cry, body wracking with shivers as the smoke caressed his body and he came down from his high, sagging into the wall. Potter’s mouth left his cock with one final pop. He sank to the floor as Potter wiped his mouth with one hand. 

__

Draco ran a hand through his hair. “What. The fuck. Just happened?”

__

The smoke was clearing from the air. Breathing in pure oxygen was like a slap in the face to his clouded brain. Which unfortunately meant he was processing what just happened. He’d kissed Harry Potter … He’d grinded against Harry Potter…

__

Harry Potter had sucked him off.

__

Harry Potter was sitting across from him, his eyes no longer glassy.

__

“Did we just…?”

__

“Yep,” Draco said.

__

There was a tense silence, broken only by the quiet simmering of that infernal potion.

__

“What was it you said about love potions?”

__

“They’re chemically similar, but I didn’t think the  _ fumes _ would--” 

__

Draco put a hand to his chest, where the pounding pain was suddenly unbearable. He spluttered and coughed and heaved, falling to his forearms on the hard stone. Black spots covered his vision, and he struggled to breathe as the air escaped his lungs. He could feel the soft red petals scraping his insides as they forced themselves out of his body. When he opened his eyes, finally able to breathe between shivers and tremors, the floor was covered in red. There was a faint pressure on his back.

__

Harry Potter had a hand on his back, rubbing it in soothing circles. He had the urge to curl up like a cat and go to sleep right then and there. He didn’t see why not -- after all, his eyelids felt burdened with the weight of several Abraxans, the sweet darkness of sleep seemed to wash over him in gentle waves. 

__

A faint voice called his name, but he did not hear it. He was falling down and down into the comfortable abyss of dreamless sleep. 

__


	4. Chapter 4

**Day Fourteen**

Draco awoke to the taste of salt and the all-consuming feeling of ‘I want to fucking die.’ He was once again in the hospital wing -- or had he never left? It would’ve been preferable -- if his entire interaction with Potter had just been some filthy wet dream. He prayed to Salazar.

And then he coughed, a stinging, ripping sensation filling his chest. 

“Shit!” He heard distantly, followed by the quick clacking of thick heels. He thought vaguely that he’d never heard Pomfrey curse. But in that moment, for some reason, he felt like it was happening to someone else. 

He was staring at the cobbled floor as his body went through the motions of coughing for him. He felt a hand at his back, and all he could think about was Potter’s hand on his back last night. Was it last night? Or did it even happen at all?

Lions were viciously clawing at his throat, and a tugging sensation made him choke, his body heaving with nothing in his stomach to expel except blood and bile. When it was over, thick blood was dripping from his mouth onto the floor, and Pomfrey a thorn bush in her hands, or a piece of one, its gentle spikes dripping in his blood and tissue. 

Draco wanted to vomit. He could feel a wetness in his body and he knew he was bleeding from the inside. 

Madam Pomfrey hadn’t even seemed to move, but then she was back by his bedside with multiple potions in hand. She shoved them at him and he drank diligently, gritting his teeth as the chemicals leached into the tears in his throat. His eyes leaked with the pain as he swallowed the last drop, a blood replenishing potion. 

He heaved, grateful for the air replenishing his body. Pomfrey had set down the glass vials and was inspecting the thorny branch that ripped its way from his body. Then she sighed, tossing it into the bucket full of rose petals … and other branches. 

Draco’s eyes widened. “How long has this been happening to me?”

“Mister Potter brought you here two days ago after you passed out. You also, might I add, exited the hospital wing  _ without my express permission _,” she sniffed. “In any event, this started happening a few hours after Potter left. Woke me with a fright, and I haven’t been able to stop the production, minus vanishing your internal organs, of course.” 

“I think we might want to avoid that course of action.”

Pomfrey shrugged. “Perhaps. Now you need to rest, and if I find you’ve left your bed again, so help me Merlin, I will  _ tie you to it _. Understood?” 

Draco nodded quickly. 

“Good,” she said, giving him an eye seeming to say  _ doubtful _. 

And with that she spun on one heal, marching away to attend to a groaning quidditch player. Hufflepuff, of course. 

Draco sighed. He had absolutely nothing to do except sleep and listen to the faint fluttering of flowers in his chest. His heartbeat was like a ticking clock, reminding him of the ever present passage of time, all too slowly in his opinion. He was uncharacteristically worried about the Veritaserum. It was essential it was attended to tonight in preparation for the truth incantations. 

_ I just need a good grade _, he told himself. But thoughts of Potter lingered in the recesses of his mind. He pushed them away, shrouding them in the fog of occlumency. 

Even as the hospital wing slowly darkened with the approach of twilight, his eyes would not close. His thoughts rambled on and on in an endless cycle of images. Eventually he couldn’t take it anymore. 

He looked around the hospital wing, and deeming it suitably empty, he pulled his wand from the bedside table. 

“ _ Accio _parchment and quill,” he whispered to the air. 

Gliding silently from Pomfrey’s office came exactly that, and Draco smirked. While he may not leave his bed tonight, he could still further the work on his potion. 

Draco composed a detailed procedure for fixing the veritaserum, with contingencies and contingencies for contingencies. After all, Potter didn’t have experience with experimental potions. (which wasn’t  _ technically _legal without a license, but Slughorn would be too happy with the results to report him) 

Somehow, his owl knew he had a note in need of delivering, for he appeared at the window right as Draco signed his name. Draco opened the window nonverbally and let Volcan in, tying the letter to his claw. He let the owl nibble at his thumb. 

“Give this to Potter.” 

Volcan took off with little more sound than a faint swish that could’ve been mistaken for the wind. 

  
  


**Day Fifteen**

Madame Pomfrey was running tests, but she barely let Draco move a muscle, and he was most definitely going insane. Everytime the bloody door opened, his heart jumped, his stomach sank, and every time he had to look over, reassuring himself it wasn’t Potter. Just another girl claiming cramps to get out of class, or another idiot third year who most definitely caught himself in his own exploding jinx. 

And yet, even after multiple reassurances, he still started at the sound of the door. Was still alerted by the faint sound of footsteps. 

Draco honestly couldn’t tell if what he was feeling was relief or disappointment. 

Pomfrey was clearly catching on. “Young man, if you are expecting a visitor, I will throw him out faster than you can say Veritaserum,” she told him sternly.

Draco thoroughly denied it, of course, but there was only so much he could say before she shushed him, claiming his throat needed no further damage. And so he was official bored and mute. 

… 

Draco had taken to counting the cracks in the ceiling. Eventually, he ran out of cracks within his sightline, so he moved on to the number of individual window panes. That one didn’t take too long, so he figured he’d attempt to count the number of sparks that shot from the flames. He thought the difficulty would prove entertaining. It didn’t. 

Pomfrey was brewing potions in the back room, so he couldn’t even observe her technique. He wondered if she was experimenting -- there were no documented records of his condition, and she’d already tried making him ingest Counter-Veritaserum, plant toxins, and even anti-love potions. 

None worked. The plant toxins made him sick. 

He was sick of being sick. 

He’d had two more incidents with thorn bushes that day. Not to mention the sheer amount of petals that had to be thrown into the fire. 

Perhaps he should recount the cracks in the ceiling.

_ One, two, three, four… _

… 

Pomfrey was yelling at someone outside the hospital wing, surely telling them to go away or Draco would spontaneously combust, or whatever the excuse was this time. 

It was sad when the only exciting parts of his day were when he coughed down experimental potions to see what would happen to him. 

It beat the ceiling. 

  
  


**Day Twenty**

Pomfrey looked thoroughly exhausted. She had just finished a floo call with the Potions Mishaps Department at Saint Mungo's, and it evidently hadn’t resulted in any new information. 

She turned to him, lips pinched in a frown, eyes weary from days of experimentation. “I’m afraid there’s nothing more I can do for you Mr. Malfoy. Nor is there anything Saint Mungo’s can do, either. They promised to pass along your case, but as far as they can tell, no one’s heard of an illness like this outside of fiction. I’m afraid I’m going to have to send you back to class.” 

Draco blinked. He thought he could at least live out the rest of his miserable life coughing up flower petals in the safety of his hospital bed. It seems even that privilege was stripped away. 

“What am I supposed to do? Carry around this bloody bucket everywhere I go, hoping I won’t start choking on thorns?”

She sighed. “Mr. Malfoy, if you want any chance at graduating and passing your NEWTs, you can’t stay here. I suppose you can take the bucket with you, but I’d like to see you cleared out by noon. Perhaps normality will be good for you.” She didn’t say it with much conviction.

… 

He couldn’t believe that the most humiliating experience of his life turned out to be walking into a hall full of students, carrying a large metal bucket. As he sat down at the Slytherin table, the Eighth Years went silent. 

Blaise spoke first. “Mate. What happened? We swear we tried to see you but Pomfrey kept going on about contagion, or combustion, and something about wild flora.”

“And why do you have a bucket?” Pansy asked. She narrowed her eyes. “You’re not still sick, right? Like, it’s not contagious?”

Draco didn’t even have the energy to roll his eyes. “No it’s not contagious,” he rasped, his voice unused to talking and ravaged from coughing. “Everything she told you was a lie except for the flora. They are … growing. Inside me. And they have to come out somehow.”

Daphne perked up -- she wanted to be a mediwitch, after all. “How did this happen? I’ve never heard of such an illness.”

“Potions accident. And neither has anyone else. It seems as if I will have to live with it for the time being. So. If you see me choking violently, it’s fine. Just a thorn bush.”

“And you’re sure it’s not contagious?” Pansy asked.

“Yes, I’m sure!”

“ _ Well _ . Just asking. No need to get defensive.”

“Mate,” said Blaise. He was giving Draco one of those rare sympathetic looks. That’s when he knew his situation was pathetic. “You’re coughing up  _ thorns _ ?”

Draco just shrugged, taking a bite of his chicken stew. It tasted like ash in his mouth. 

He floated through the day like a ghost through a crowded hall. His brain couldn’t keep up -- by the time he was in History of Magic, he forgot that he had even walked there. Professor Binns couldn’t hold his interest on a good day, but now he barely even registered voices. He just  _ was _ . 

And then he was in Potions. Potter sat next to him and Draco couldn’t help but think about his warm mouth wrapped around-- nope. He and his flowers seemed to take a collective breath. It was going to be a long day. 

But Potions wasn’t terrible. The warm air seemed to clear his lungs as he and Potter brewed a Volubilis potion in silence. But the tension was palpable. Potter was determinately staring at his mint sprigs as he chopped them rather vigorously. 

Draco opened his mouth to comment, but a strangled sound was all that came out. Potter glanced at him questioningly, but Draco quickly went back to stirring the potion.

The potion didn’t need to be stirred. 

Potter cleared his throat. “I-- um. I followed your directions, and everything seemed to go fine. I think it’s ready for the incantation now.”

Draco closed his eyes. Yes, the potion. The potion they were working on together. Alone.

“Well, I’ll let you be the judge of that I suppose,” Potter added. 

“Yes, of course,” Draco said, unable to bring himself to look Potter in the eyes. “Tonight, then?”

“Yeah, as long as you don’t have to go back to Pomphrey. I’m in enough trouble with her as it is.”

“No, no. I’m a lost cause. Hence the bucket.”

“Ah,” was all Potter said before they lapsed once more into silence. 

The mint sprigs turned the potion green.

… 

Draco normally walked fairly quickly. He was tall, his strides were long. He could walk efficiently through crowds, parting them as easily as tearing through paper.

But today was different. He walked sluggishly, slouching, his heels dragging over the cobbled floors. He made no effort to slip through crowds of students, no effort to intimidate any first year hufflepuffs, as would be befitting of him. No. He meandered on, allowing himself to be slowed by blockages in the halls. Anything to be late. Anything to avoid  _ him _ . 

Potter. 

The source of his misery, he was certain. 

When he glimpsed that cursed painting of Eros and Psyche, he almost turned around and left. Maybe he could just leave this school, leave this country. Go to Scandinavia, finish his education at Durmstrang. 

They’d probably like him a lot better there anyway. 

But for some reason he walked on. His feet were in control, his muscles taking the reigns as he approached and opened the door to their room without a conscious thought.  _ Their _ room.

Gods he wanted to die.

The flowers inside his chest took that exact moment as the perfect opportunity to explode. He coughed, hacked until he could only see spots. He didn’t remember hitting the ground, but there he was, on his knees. With Potter kneeling in front of him. 

Merlin. 

Draco’s ears were clogged. His voice, Potter’s voice, sounded underwater. Like they were both underwater and Draco was drowning and he could only hold on to one thing, one last breath. 

But why should he hold on?

“ _ Hey, Draco _ !” The voice sliced through him like a knife. He spit and felt the velvety rush of petals leave his throat. Wheezing, he hauled his head up to meet Potter’s eyes. What was he supposed to say? What do you say when your supposed enemy watches you crumple to your knees? What do you do when they don’t beat you down for it, and instead look at you like  _ that _ ?

“Hello,” he settled on. It sounded more like a soft shriek in his ravaged throat. 

“Are--Are you okay?”

Draco just pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the offered hand of help. “Fine. Let’s just do this, right?”

“Are you sure you should even be up?”

Draco laughed, wheezed. “What else am I supposed to do? Just leave it be, Potter.”

He just blinked. “Er, okay. But if you need to leave right after--”

“Potter, how about I worry about me and you worry about you, and we just get this over with?”   


He ducked his head and Draco almost had the heart to feel bad.  _ Almost _ . 

Instead, he just sat, peering over the rim of the cauldron to inspect Potter’s handiwork. It was … not bad. Draco was almost disappointed -- once again the golden boy proved himself worthy of his title. He didn’t know what he expected. He just knew that for once, he wanted  _ something _ to not be his fault. 

As he stirred the potion, his mind swirled. Remembering how poorly the truth incantation had gone last time, Draco fervently searched for something to say. He stalled, pretending to contemplate the potion, adding a few inactive ingredients for “taste,” and stirred when the potion need not be stirred.

Soon there came a time when Draco worried adding any more ingredients would make the potion explode in his face. He just had to get through it. After this week, he never need interact with Potter again. That would make this entire experience null and void. He could just pretend it never happened. Or blot it out with fire whiskey. Who said alcohol didn’t solve problems?

He sighed. “Potter?”

The man stilled. “Yeah?”

“It’s time.”

“Right.”

Potter sat across the cauldron from him, just like last time. The moonlight illuminated his dark hair, turned his green eyes into emeralds. Draco was sure  _ he _ looked like a ghost, white hair limp and cheeks sallow from illness. A drop of blood smearing his bottom lip in red. 

“Is it the same incantation from last time?” Potter asked.

“Not quite. Its  _ ego vero _ , with a swirling wand motion like this.” Draco demonstrated. 

Potter just nodded. “And I just -- say something about myself, yes?”

“Something that I don’t know.”

“Right.”

There was a pause, the silence suffocating. Draco could feel vines tightening within him. 

“Ready?” He asked. 

“No.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “I’ll go first then,” he muttered. “...  _ Ego vero. _ ” His wand danced atop the potion’s bubbling depths. 

He breathed in. Then out. Then, latching onto the first thought that swam to the surface: “I still love my father, even after… all this. Even after he murdered so many people, tortured so many innocent people who did nothing but  _ exist _ . Even after he lowered himself to please some snake-eyed psychopath. I still love him, but I know I shouldn’t…” 

Draco stared into the potion, its depths swirling with the power of his words, seeming to glow with faint purple light. He refused to look up at Potter, afraid of what he’d see there, written in his eyes. Disgust? Or worse -- pity? 

He didn’t need the Chosen One’s pity. He didn’t deserve it. 

When it became clear that Draco would not make eye contact, Potter continued on, waving his wand over the cauldron. “ _ Ego vero. _ ” 

Draco shivered. It was the magic filling the air, the power in it. Nothing else. 

There was a long pause, so long Draco worried the spell had worn off. But then Potter spoke, and the potion glowed.

“I -- I think I miss the war. I miss the action, I miss being useful. It sounds horrible, I know, but all my life had been leading up to that single moment in the Great Hall, and now … it’s almost like I died with  _ him,  _ with Voldemort.” 

Draco flinched at the name, but Potter didn’t seem to notice. 

“I’m not the same, I can’t be, not after  _ everything _ . And it’s selfish of me to … to crave that kind of purpose when it comes a such an expense. But I can’t help it. I just feel -- empty, now… Er, most of the time. But I think… ” 

He trailed off. Draco glanced down at the potion suspiciously. It rapidly glowed brighter and brighter, almost like flames danced at the bottom of the pool. Smoke rose in tendrils, billowing out and seeming to caress them. Draco shivered. 

“Potter.”

“Yeah?” His voice sounded strangled. 

“I think you need to finish.”

“What?”   


“Finish what you were going to say, Potter,” Draco gritted out. The smoke seemed to be dragging at his conscious mind, drawing it out of his body, and he did  _ not _ want to find out why. 

“Er-- I think I feel better when I’m with you… Less empty.”

Draco scoffed. “Because I remind you of the war?”

“What! No, no -- well, yes, but -- I think you and I are more similar than either of us would like to believe.”

Draco narrowed his eyes. 

“Look, the war stole both of our lives. Granted, in much different ways, but … in the end we both lost. Everyone  _ lost _ , it doesn’t matter what side we started on. Ended on.” He gave Draco a look, his eyes gleaming in the amber light of their potion. “At this point we just have to cling to the fact that we’re alive at all. And sometimes that’s not enough. But I think it could be…” 

The smoke in the air seemed to collectively disperse. Draco felt his shoulders shake, felt something bubble from his chest. He laughed, no humor in his voice.

Potter shrunk away. “What?”

Draco continued to shake, tears collecting in the corners of his eyes. “I think it’s so  _ fucking _ ironic that you are the one who feels empty while I am  _ full _ of these,” he growled, picking up a velved rose petal and throwing it back to the ground. “I do not feel empty, I do not feel soulless, like perhaps I should. Instead I am full of guilt. And the worst part is I know I fucking deserve it. I deserve to drown in it, and I am. I threw myself into this pool. My lungs are full now.” Tears ran down his cheeks and he wiped at them angrily. As if to emphasize his point, he wretched, flowers spewing from his lips. 

“You said it yourself, you had no choice,” Potter said softly.

“And you believed that?” Draco laughed again, wiping blood from his mouth. “I had a choice. Everyone has a choice. We’ve made ours, and now you get to watch from the beach as I drown.”

“I’ll catch you,” he whispered.

Draco shook his head. 

“I’ll give you my breath.”

Draco looked up at him, eyes glittering. The wind whispered softly in the darkness outside as the world seemed to pause. As, for one moment, the earth stopped turning, as the two wizards, two sides of a war, stopped breathing and just watched. Waited. 

“You don’t --” Draco said. “You don’t mean that.” He felt the petals stir in his chest, filling him with their thorny insistence. 

Potter looked over towards the potion. Its color had faded, along with its heat. Now, it was clear, crystalline in its beauty, cold as arctic waters. “Then ask me.”

Draco frowned.

“Put a single drop of that on my tongue and ask me.” 

The thought of putting anything on Potter’s tongue made him shiver. But he realized what Potter was offering. He had the power to ask anything he wanted. He could  _ take _ whatever he wanted. 

He didn’t want that power. 

“I -- I can’t.”

Potter frowned. “Why not?”

“Having that kind of power over someone … it’s something  _ he _ would do -- the Dark Lord. I’ve done it before. I made this potion for him, countless times. Used it on people he didn’t deem  _ important _ enough to break with legilimency. I’ve stolen people’s secrets. I won’t do that to you. I won’t force you to tell me anything.”

“... Oh. I see.”

The silence was crushing. Deafening. Suddenly, Draco was scared he screwed everything up. But surely he wasn’t -- surely he didn’t  _ want _ Harry Potter. He closed his eyes. The petals inside him swayed. 

“P-- Harry, I … I would gladly swim out of this ocean with you.” 

As Draco met Harry’s eyes, he felt the pressure in his chest loosen, as if a knot of thorns had retracted from his heart. As if the petals crowding his chest had vanished like smoke on the wind. Like bubbles in deep water. Rising. 

“Really?” His green eyes were wide. Almost -- hopeful.

Draco nodded. “Yes.”

And slowly, ever so slowly, two sides of one war, two sides of the same coin, met over a cauldron of clearest water. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woahh. This is the first fic I’ve ever finished so uhh thanks for sticking with me to the end. I’d hug you, but I’m not big on physical contact, so how about a hearty nod in your general direction ;)
> 
> Comments and kudos are always appreciated!
> 
> Title from “Deep Water” by American Authors
> 
> And of course, many thanks to my dear beta for putting up with all my bullshit 🤠


End file.
